


Backward With Purpose: The Book of Albus

by deadptarmigan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Next Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 16:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadptarmigan/pseuds/deadptarmigan
Summary: This is the companion novel to Backward with Purpose: Always and Always.





	1. Chapter 1

**HARRY POTTER, SAVIOR OF WIZARDING WORLD, DEAD**

_By Mahalia Dunesdon_

_Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and the Chosen One, died last night at St. Mungo's. He was thirty nine years old. Though he was still quite young, the accomplishments during the course of his lifetime are legendary. He defeated Tom Riddle (then known as Voldemort or, more commonly, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) at the age of fifteen during the Battle for the Ministry of Magic. Upon graduation of Hogwarts, he became an Auror, despite the fact that many believed that he had given enough. But when asked - and this phrase encapsulates his personality according to those closest to him - why he chose to keep fighting, he said, "Evil and darkness have many heads; it is my duty to help keep them at bay." And for two decades he did just that, until late last year he developed an illness that brought him to a rapid decline._

_He did not die alone. He is survived by his wife, Ginevra Potter, and their three children. A Healer, who prefers to remain anonymous, stated that there was quite the crowd at the moment of his passing. This crowd included the famous naturalist, Luna Scamander, the owner of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and the Curse Breaker, William Weasley. Ronald and Hermione Weasley kept vigil with Mrs. Potter, of course. It is rumored that he asked for his old mentor, Albus Dumbldore, dead these many years, minutes before he passed._

_The Daily Prophet would like all of their readers to take the time to remember the man who bought the peace we have today. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made in his name to the Neville Longbottom Memorial Wing at St. Mungo's._


	2. Chapter 2

Dad's funeral was the worst day of my life. And it's a bit different when I say that as opposed to when other people say it because, let's face it, I've had more lifetimes of memories than most people (even Mum, Dad, and Uncle Ron, but that's another story). But this was the _first _worst day of my life, I had no idea that Dad and the other two had traveled time, and I sure as hell didn't know that I'd do it too. Therefore I vividly remember sweating through my robes. Some stupid cow that I'd never met in my entire life was up at the front, sobbing, as she waxed poetic about Dad.

"-he was such a saint," she said quiveringly. "A saint. He must have been just too wonderful to stay here with us for long."

I exchanged incredulous glances with James. I could practically hear him say "What the hell?" It was obvious that the stupid cow had never even been in the same room as Dad, let alone actually spoken with him enough to write a eulogy that didn't make those who knew him vomit in their mouths a little. Dad was many things, but a saint was not one of them. He was brave and hard-working, but he had a temper that rivaled Mum's once he got going. I suddenly remembered that time when the three of us had stolen Dad's wand and taken the Knight Bus to the zoo (we were looking for Aunt Luna). If that woman had seen his reaction to that, she sure as hell wouldn't have called him a saint.

"What are you smiling at?" Lily leaned across Mum. I was horrified. I'd actually smiled at my own dad's funeral? But Lily didn't look like she wanted to hex me and Mum, who sat between us, didn't say anything.

"Remember when we went to find Aunt Luna at the zoo?" I asked. "Dad was _not _a saint."

"My arse _still_ hurts," James murmured. All three of us chuckled a little. I just couldn't help it. I could hear disapproving mutters from the crowd behind us, but Uncle Ron reached around James and clapped my shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, and Mum ruffled my hair. _And they're the ones that matter_, I thought resentfully. _This funeral is rubbish. Dad would've hated it._

And I knew that for a fact. Dad would have preferred it if everyone had just forgotten what had happened all those years ago - before I was even born - with Tom Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort. He didn't like it when random witches and wizards came up to him while we were all at Quality Quidditch Supplies or Flourish and Blotts and thanked him. He was always gracious about it (Mum wasn't, especially if they tried to get too close to any of us), but I could tell it bothered him a lot.

He didn't even tell his own kids the details of what had happened until right before we left for Hogwarts. I'd known that he'd defeated a really evil wizard when he was still a kid himself, but I didn't know about the prophecy or the Horcruxes or any of that. I used to wonder if that's why I got sorted into Slytherin. I'd just had all (or what I _thought _was all - I had a rude awakening on my seventeenth birthday when Mum and Uncle Ron sat me down and told me the real story) of Dad's heroics clearly outlined for me. So of _course _I was wondering how in the name of Merlin I'd ever measure up.

But I tried not to feel that way. Dad had enough people thinking he was some sort of perfect hero. He didn't need one of his own kids to do it too. I turned around, wondering if the rest of the family wanted this stupid woman to just get off the stage. Granddad held Grandma; she was weeping unabashedly, and I would not be surprised if neither of them had heard anything that was said since the funeral began. Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey sat with their heads bowed. Uncle Percy was always serious, though. I remember lively debates with James as to why the uncle who laughed the least owned a joke shop, of all things. But then Mum had explained to us that our Uncle Fred and Uncle George (who had both died in the war) had started it, and it helped Uncle Percy keep their memory alive.

That was when I was seven years old or so, and I was still a little naive. It didn't make sense to me why someone would do something they didn't really like because of dead people. But I'd never asked him straight up why he'd done it. That had been Lily, who was probably braver and had less tact than James or me.

"They talked about opening this shop for years," he'd said. "It was their dream."

But it obviously hadn't been his dream. Uncle Ron had said so often enough, and I think the two of them used to fight about it, but never in front of us. Dad told us later that night that sometimes people never really got over losing someone. At the time, I thought he'd just been talking about Uncle Percy, but I later realized that when it came to keeping memories of loved ones alive, Uncle Percy didn't hold a candle to Dad.

Uncle Percy caught me staring at him, and gave me a little smile.

Sometimes I wish that Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione were my godparents. James was their godson, and even though they included me in all sorts of godparent/godchild activities, I sometimes felt guilty that I liked them more than Uncle Percy. I felt obligated to be closer to him, but Uncle Percy was too formal. Too polite. Too _something_. But then I always consoled myself by reminding myself that Aunt Luna was my godmother, and it was sort of like being the godchild of a whirlwind.

And she gave the best presents.

I couldn't help but grin when I saw that she'd worn bright yellow. That was Aunt Luna. Everyone else was wearing black dress robes, and she wore what she called "sun colors." Dad would've liked that.

Something huge and awful pressed down on my chest. It was so sudden. One moment I was thinking about Aunt Luna's outfit, and the next all I could think was how Dad couldn't see it. He and Uncle Ron wouldn't exchange those laughing grins, and later, Dad wouldn't tease Mum about how she could learn a thing or two about fashion from Aunt Luna. And Mum wouldn't threaten to hex him, but we'd all know that she wasn't serious. And Dad wouldn't send us off to bed early, and we wouldn't be disgusted by what that meant...

Because Dad was gone. Uncle Ron didn't have a best mate, Mum didn't have a husband, and me and James and Lily were half orphans. I concentrated really hard on blinking, and looked around to distract myself. We were in Godric's Hollow, of course. This wasn't the first time that I'd been here in the cemetery. Granddad and Grandma Potter were buried here, and so was Dad's old mentor, Albus Dumbledore. But it was the first time that I'd seen the grassy areas between headstones expanded so that space could be made for literally hundreds of chairs. I tried to occupy myself by counting the people I actually knew (not very many), but all the while I felt like I had poison bubbling in my stomach.

All too soon, Granddad stood up. I suddenly did not want the funeral to be over, and I gripped the arms of my chair so tightly that my nails made little, half-moon scars in the wood. Dad is gone, he's not coming back. I tried to take slow, even breaths. I did not want to cry in front of so many people. I'd already cried last night, when we'd all slept with Mum in her big bed like we used to when we were little, before James claimed that he was too much of a big boy to have sleep-overs with Mum and Dad on Saturday nights. I'd woken up before it was even light outside, and I'd been too disoriented for a few moments to realize what the absence of Dad's snores meant. And then it had hit me.

I wanted that stupid woman who hadn't known Dad at all to keep talking. Her words had been empty and meaningless, but when Granddad walked to the front of the crowd just in front of the large headstone engraved with the name "Harry James Potter" and the words "Always and Always," I wanted to jump up and run away. I knew that I was being irrational, Dad had already died, but once Granddad finished speaking and the funeral was over, it would mean that Dad was really, truly gone.

"Always and always," Granddad said in a hoarse voice that was carried magically to every ear in the crowd. "Harry Potter lived by those words since the moment I met him. And he taught those who knew and loved him how to live by it as well. The world"-here his voice broke-"will always remember Harry as the man who defeated Voldemort. But I'll remember him as being my seventh son, and my daughter will remember him as the love of her life. And his children will remember him as, what James has said, the 'best dad in the world.' But it all means the same thing. Because the greatest accomplishment of Harry Potter was his huge capacity to love."

He spoke more, but there was a terrible ringing in my ears, and tears were sliding down my face. James shook beside me with the force of his sobs, and we all sort of leaned against Mum, who gripped us so tightly it hurt. What Granddad said was true. Dad really had been the best, even though he'd fretted for our safety a bit too much, and even though he sometimes lost his temper. And I stupidly thought, who is going to teach me the Wronski Feint?

A little while later, Mum and Uncle Ron got up. I wiped my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my robes, wondering what they were up to. Mum had been adamant that she did not want to say anything. Uncle Ron hadn't either; Aunt Hermione had considered it, but in the end, Granddad had been chosen as representative of the family. But neither one of them made any move to speak. Instead, they both drew their wands. Uncle Ron pulled something out of his pocket and enlarged it. It looked like a shallow crystal bowl on a stand.

Then Mum waved her wand, and a jet of flame leapt from the end of her wand and filled the bowl with dancing blue light. Everlasting fire, I thought in awe. Uncle Ron threw an arm over Mum's shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She didn't say anything that I could see, only nodded her head, and squared her shoulders.

I put my head in my hands, and everything inside me rebelled at the thought of saying goodbye to my father.


	3. Chapter 3

I can't pinpoint the exact date that the anger started. I mean, it's obvious that it really began when Dad died, and probably even when he began his inexorable decline. But for two years after Dad died it was dormant. I suppose it was more of an edge than something that pretty much consumed me. It made me snappy; it caused my grandma to cluck over me. Once, after I'd gotten annoyed with Lily for picking at James for some stupid, imagined offense (honestly, though, she couldn't just relax, especially if it was the wrong time of the month).

"Just shut up, Lily!" My voice came out louder than I wanted it to. Uncle Ron looked over and quirked a grin.

"We're just teasing, Al," James snapped back. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

I seethed inwardly. Apparently it was not as private as I thought, for Mum and Uncle Ron exchanged exasperated, amused, and saddened expressions. I knew this look well. It meant that either I or my brother and sister had done something that reminded them so much of Dad that they had to acknowledge it.

"Are you reminded of his fifth year?" Uncle Ron murmured.

"Almost every day," Mum said exasperatedly.

It infuriated me that what they said sometimes made no sense. I knew all about Dad's fifth year. He'd spent it training with Albus Dumbledore, for whom I am named, and right before Christmas, he'd taken care of Voldemort once and for all. I also knew that they'd never said anything about Dad being broody (and I'm not stupid, I knew that they were talking about what they called my moods). I don't know what they were playing at, and it only inflamed my annoyance when they tried to pretend that they knew something I didn't.

But I didn't have the heart to snap back at Mum. She tried to put a good face on things, but I heard her crying almost every night when she thought we were asleep.

But everything was slowly boiling all throughout my sixth year. I had the unsettling experience of being ambitious (what can I say? I fully belong in Slytherin), and being completely uninterested in what Hogwarts had to offer. I wasn't a bad student. Dad had always been really relaxed about using magic outside of school ("What's the point? What the Ministry of Magic doesn't know won't hurt them," he'd say. Mum would invariably try to argue, but he could always get her to forget about it.) and I got loads of practice. Plus, Aunt Hermione - who is prety much the smartest witch on the planet - took great interest in the education of her nieces and nephews. Sometimes I wondered how my cousins, Rose and Hugo, survived. I pictured them hunched over school desks, reading Hogwarts: A History three times a day.

Needless to say, my growing annoyance with life in general did not go unnoticed by my schoolmates.

Sometime in the fall during my sixth year, I was sitting in the Slytherin common room. I was pretending to study, but I was, in actuality, feeling annoyed that my dad had lied. Well, to be fair, he hadn't lied. He'd told me, the night before I left for my first year at Hogwarts, that he'd made the best friends he'd ever had during his very first ride on the Hogwarts Express. And he had. That wasn't a lie. And I could admit that he had never promised the same thing for me. But it seemed like an affront to destiny that I did not, in fact, meet an Uncle Ron or Aunt Hermione during my first ride.

I'd sat in the same compartment as my cousin Rose. And me and Rose were probably the closest of all the cousins. She's a great girl, she really is. But she's sort of scary how she's so rigid about following the rules. I'm not the only one who thinks this. I remember a day right between my first and second year when Uncle Ron tried to lure her into doing underage magic. The efforts became pretty elaborate, but Rose held out. That sort of self-control scared me, but my uncle just laughed and seemed really proud that she was just like her mother.

But I hadn't really made the type of friendship that my dad had. I couldn't look at someone in my dorm and say to myself yes, I'd want to have this bloke hunt down little pieces of a madman's soul with me.

"Albus Severus Potter," said a voice that was far too familiar. My dark mood took a turn for the worse.

"What do you want, Wilder?" I asked. I didn't even try to make it sound like she wasn't the last person in the world that I wanted to talk to. Emily WIlder is pretty much the bane of my existence.

She sat down on the table. I actually had to move my books out of the way. She would have sat on them if I hadn't. I glared at her, pretending that I hadn't noticed that my hand had brushed up against her bum. And when I gave that up as a bad job, I just glared harder. And, just to infuriate me, her grin widened. I hunkered down in my chair.

"I'm busy, Wilder," I said coldly.

"You know," she said thoughtfully. "I sometimes miss the days when you called me Emmy."

It was her own damn fault that I didn't call her Emmy anymore. We used to be pretty good friends, actually. We didn't meet on the Hogwarts Express, but we met that first night in the common room. We were both feeling a bit out of place. All of the other kids who'd grown up hearing about Harry Potter didn't really know what to make of me joining their house. And they doubly didn't know what to make of Emily; she's a Muggleborn. So we'd sort of banded together. And I'd called her Emmy, and she always said my full name in the exact same manner, putting the stress on the last syllables. I used to think it was pretty funny. She had no idea that magic existed until she got her letter, so she hadn't any clue that I was named for two great heroes of the war. I used to like that. But now... whenever she said my name, it drove me wild.

She cleared her throat when it became clear that I wasn't going to reply to her stupid comment. "Are you working on the essay for Charms?" she asked. I glanced down at the books in my hands. It was obvious that all of them were based on Charms.

"No," I said slowly. "I'm freaking working on the Draught of Peace. See all the potions ingredients?" I held up Quintessance: A Quest. "Isn't it obvious?"

She looked away, and I knew that I'd hurt her. I felt a horrible mixture of guilt and satisfaction. She'd burned me really bad not even two months after Dad died. I just couldn't forgive her.

"You're such a wise arse, Al Potter," she said coolly. Wilder was like that. She could bounce back without more than a second of hesitation. But she couldn't control the dull flush that crept up her neck. "No, wait," she said thoughtfully. "You're not a wise arse, you're a wise asp. Your initials," she said, as if I were a particularly stupid five year old and couldn't have figured that out myself. "ASP. Wise Asp."

A few fifth years laughed a bit nastily (I'd just told them to shut the hell up, so I probably deserved it). And Wilder scooted off the table, flipped that long hair the color of honey over her shoulder, gave me a wink, and sashayed right out the door.

The nickname stuck.


	4. Chapter 4

Mum always says that Potter men sometimes just need to go out to Granddad's shed and have our heads put back together. When I was a child, this generally happened when we needed to have a stern talking to, and Dad (who knew his limitations) was laughing too hard to do it properly. Once, when James and I got into it, I turned him into an ass. Not on purpose, it was accidental magic. But Mum and Dad took one look and laughed and actually had to hold on to each other to keep from falling over. Luckily we were at the Burrow; all they had to do was point, and I knew what I had to do. So I trudged out to the shed, and listened to an impromptu lecture on 'Why We Don't Turn Our Brothers Into Asses.'

But now I sort of found myself wanting some advice. I'd been feeling off all day. I was home from school; we'd been given special dispensation to attend the annual celebration of the defeat of Voldemort, and then to just stay home until the Christmas holidays started the day after. And every time I thought about either Voldemort or Emily Wilder, I felt this incandescent rage that started in my bones and radiated outward so that waves of fury traveled over my skin again and again.

This was not a pleasant feeling.

I_ wish Dad was here_, I thought savagely, as I did pretty much every day. It just seemed grossly unfair that the entire freaking world would celebrate what he had done, and he was moldering in his grave. Yeah, he'd survived that asshole, but he'd died before he was even forty. Heroes were supposed to live long lives and grow old with the girl and see their grandchildren be born (which might be sooner rather than later. James had made his way through practically every girl in Gryffindor, and was now seeing a Hufflepuff, though we all knew that he'd end up with Sarah Black).

I opened the shed door with more force than I intended. Granddad jumped and banged his head on the low-floating lantern. I grimaced apologetically while he swore.

"Morning, Al," he said, rubbing his head and wincing.

"Morning, Granddad," I said. I already sounded belligerent. "I don't want to go today. In fact, I'm not going to go today."

"Oh?" He said, lifting an eyebrow. I'd once heard Dad say that Granddad is unflappable in the face of children, and it's true. Granddad always attributes it to raising my dead twin uncles. He always says "I raised Fred and George" with that look that was a mixture of weariness, resignation, and the type of grief that I hadn't understood until the funeral of my father.

"Yeah," I said, crossing my arms. "It's a stupid waste of time. None of you ever want to go," I said accusingly. "Dad hated going, you know that."

"It's true that I always dread going," he said calmly. "But I would feel worse if I didn't go. I understand that it has something to do with your father-"

"It has nothing to do with him!" I lied loudly. I immediately felt guilty for yelling at Granddad. "Sorry," I muttered. I ruffled my hair. "It's just... I just... when he was here, it was pretty amazing." And it had been. One of my earliest memories was of sitting on Dad's shoulders and watching the fireworks, pulling at his hair so tightly that I had hanks of it in my hands at the end of the evening. I hadn't understood at all what was being celebrated, and why a huge crowd of people had treated Dad with respect bordering on worship. "But now it doesn't seem like there's much to celebrate."

Granddad fiddled around with the calculator that lay on the table. I knew that he wasn't really tinkering with it; he was just gathering his thoughts.

"I often feel the same way," he admitted finally. "I buried two children, and, believe me, that sort of pain never goes away. Not a day goes by when I don't think of them. They weren't even supposed to be there," he said. His voice had an odd note in it, as though he was still surprised that his sons were gone, even after all these years. "But your uncles... they were a force of nature," he chuckled. "Nothing could stop them, not really."

"It's Voldemort's fault," I said suddenly. I wanted to clap a hand over my mouth. Maybe he'll think that I meant Uncle Fred and Uncle George, I thought hopefully. But Granddad was too astute for that.

"He was sick, Al," he said gently. "It had nothing to do with Voldemort."

I looked away and glared mutinously at the wall. I hated to admit it, but Granddad was wrong. Yeah, maybe Voldemort hadn't used the Killing Curse on Dad again, but maybe if he hadn't had such a hard life, he would've been stronger. I may have only been fourteen at the time, but I've got ears. The Healers had said that he couldn't fight whatever sickness he'd contracted because his constitution was weak. Dad was the strongest wizard in Britain, so that asshole Voldemort must've whittled away at him. And getting hit with the Killing Curse twice was no joke, either.

I hid my hands in the folds of my robes to hide the fact that I was trembling with rage.

I couldn't fool Granddad. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I immediately felt the backs of my eyes sting, and I was about half a hair away from crying. Not that that hadn't happened before in this place. I hate to admit, but I was a sensitive child, and I used to cry whenever Granddad raised his voice just a little. Thankfully, that had ended when I was about five. So it wasn't like I'd be embarrassed or anything, but I knew that the pressure in my chest that seemed like a pretty constant companion would just get worse if I let it out.

"There are things you don't understand," Granddad murmured.

"I understand perfectly well," I bit out before I could stop myself. I squeezed my eyes closed. Dad died because Voldemort weakened him. It was like a constant refrain in my head. The prophecy hadn't turned out to be in favor of Dad, after all, because if he hadn't been the stupid Chosen One, he would've died of old age. I could see it so vividly in my head... Dad, scarless, would be waiting inside the Burrow with Mum, Uncle Ron, and Aunt Hermione. He'd be excited about going to the celebration, not moaning and groaning, because the Chosen One would've been Neville Longbottom, and I'd heard stories about him all my life. Maybe Neville could have survived past forty, and everyone would be so happy with Neville out of St. Mungo's.

"Al-"

"Listen," I said. I tried to smile. "I'm sorry for being stupid. I'm going to the celebration. And I've got to go get ready for it, I guess," I was lying. The event wasn't for another three hours, and I wasn't Lily, who needed that amount of time to get ready.

I left before Granddad could stop me.


End file.
